Dying is Easy
by Nymbis
Summary: "…but show him mercy, let him live, and I will serve you gladly. I will spend the rest of my days proving my gratitude." Canon divergent AU, where the Darkling decides to take Alina's offer, and the stag's antlers remain a collar. Nikolai/Alina, Darkling/Alina, and Mal/Alina. Darker themes.
1. Prologue: A Different Mercy

**Notes: **Dedicated to harry-up-n-kiss-me on tumblr, who requested a Nikolai x Alina x Darkling triangle :B (it will end up being Alina x Harem but I hope you enjoy it all the same!) ! Starts at the same place as chapter 21 of Shadow and Bone. First lines are taken directly from the novel.

**Warnings: **There will be violence, character death, darker themes re: the Darkling and his control over Alina, and the rating may possibly go up later.

**Prologue: A Different Mercy**

**o.**

_Because the collar can't give you what you want. I have no choice but to serve you, but if Mal comes to harm, I wll never forgive you. I will fight you in anyway that I can. I will spend every waking minute looking for a way to end my life, and eventually, I'll succeed. But show him mercy, let him live, and I will serve you gladly. I will spend the rest of my days proving my gratitude._

**i.**

There are twenty six bars on the door of his cell. The first time he counted, it was twenty five, but the next ten counts confirmed that the first estimate was an error. There is a draft from just below the wall that rests on top of the stairs, which he estimates have fourteen steps. Two of which creak.

It's been about a week since he's seen her. He thinks.

Mal Oretsev stares into the only lamp in the room, and tries to tell himself that he isn't scared. Maybe he isn't, or at least, he doesn't think he is for himself. He's been shot at, he's seen his friends die, and he's intimately familiar with the knowledge that death is inevitable. So he knows that he's probably not going to ever leave this cell, unless it's to be blindfolded and lined up in front of a firing squad. Because he's a deserter, and that's treason. And treason meets its end at the barrel of a gun more often than not.

So that's not scary.

Not that scary.

There are better things to be afraid of. For.

Mal closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold, uneven stone wall of his cell. The edge of an old brick digs into the base of his neck, but he lets it because pain is one way to keep focus. And he needs something to keep him steady, to allow the compass in his thoughts to keep pointing due North, because there's something that's more important to think about than whether or not he's afraid of being killed.

Behind his eyelids, he sees Alina brushing her hair over a shoulder. Sees _his _fingers trailing over her neck. Sees her breath come in shaky when he touches her skin. The image makes a flash of sour anger rush through him, and his fist slams against the cold, stone floor of the cell. Mal is starting to get used to failing. But he can't fail her.

Because deep down, Mal knows that he could fail Ravka, fail the First Army, or even fail Keramzin, and it would be okay. He can fail anyone but her and be okay. As long as Alina's safe, Mal can be unafraid of the firing squad or the noose or even the volcra. Maybe even the monster that has her now. Because that's what love is, and it's something that allows people to run from armies and travel across permafrost without a blanket, and it's something that the Darkling can never, ever take away from him no matter how hard he tries or how many bars he puts on his cell door.

And love makes him unafraid of whatever fate awaits him, as long as it's not a fate that's shared.

…the first three nights, he had demanded to know where she was. If she was okay. What they wanted from her. One of the Grisha—a bastard in a red _kefta _and a constant aura of superiority—had only said she was where the Darkling wanted her to be, and ordered the guards to silence.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth nights, he sat alone and counted bars on his door and tried not to feel pathetic. He failed at that, too.

The seventh night is tonight. And he has company besides his thoughts and the memory of Alina being shackled like an animal.

The door with a draft underneath it swings open, and Mal keeps his eyes closed. He listens as two pairs of boots make short footfalls down the fourteen steps—two of which definitely creak. He doesn't run to the bars of his cell, into the light so he can see who it is. And he doesn't make any demands or pleas. He won't give them satisfaction of thinking he was waiting for them. Instead, he calmly keeps one hand against the rock (the knuckles sting from hitting it earlier, but that's fine) and the other fisted over his knee.

It's not until he hears the voice of the second pair of boots that he tenses.

"Bring the boy."

Every single muscle in his body becomes a coiled spring, and Mal slowly opens his eyes. They take longer to adjust to the dark (he remembers a time when that used to scare him, when he would see fingers and claws in the spaces filling dark corners and shadowed doorways) but he can make out the two gray eyes staring into his cell. He can see how they're devoid of anything human—two chips of granite, with all the warmth and sympathy of stone.

Mal knows—instinctively, undoubtedly—that this man is here to kill him.

He does not move either hand. Does not move to the cell door. Does not let the Darkling think he was waiting for him. And closes his eyes again. Let them get their hands dirty. He wasn't going to make his own execution easy for them.

He hears a click, the sound of a key turning, and his cell door with twenty six bars swings open. Mal evens his breathing.

"Get up," the voice belongs to that same Grisha from before, and it's not long until Mal feels the edges of a boot swing into the spaces between his ribs. He does what he knows will give the least pleasure: his body goes limp, his eyes remain closed and his face is devoid of expression save the slightest clench of his jaw when the Grisha's boot connects with his side for a second time.

"Ivan."

One word from the monster is enough to get the Grisha to stop kicking. And Mal cherishes this small, quiet victory before the Darkling speaks again.

"I expected you to be louder."

Mal's lip curls, just a little, but he doesn't respond.

He hears the Darkling walk forward, into the cell. The Grisha in red relaxes his leg. Mal can feel the Darkling's presence as he approaches closer to him. His body blocks the weak light of the lamp. It's nearly silent before he continues.

"Alina certainly was."

All Mal sees is red, and it's so encompassing and blinding that it's not until he's launching himself at the Darkling that he realizes he's actually opened his eyes. He goes to swing his fist into the Darkling's face, to hear that satisfying crunch of bone as he shatters the bastard's nose in, when something tightens around his chest like a vice.

It's like a fist has grabbed hold of his heart, and Mal lets out a pathetic, strangled noise as his body stills. He can hear blood rushing into his ears, feel the painful strain of his heartbeats in between the aching labor of his breaths. He looks over, and sees the Grisha in red standing with his hand outstretched. There's no sign of strain on his features, no indication of concentration. Not even an expression.

_Does it really take them so little? _Filters through his mind at the same time as _she's not like them, she's __**not**_.

"What…have…you…." He can't finish the question, because his tongue won't move. Because his lungs aren't getting enough air to form words.

The Darkling lets out a small, bored sigh, and only turns to the Grisha.

"Keep him conscious."

Mal thinks he sees the Grisha go slightly paler. But he only nods, and Mal sags to his knees. Sees the dots of black creeping into his vision. It takes him everything just to inhale.

"She's not your concern, tracker. Was never your concern, and if you weren't so blinded by…sentiment, it would have saved-" the Darkling shakes his head, his jaw tightens, and Mal sees him decide he's not worth words. And Mal tries to snort but can't. Of course he's not. He's a dead man.

He's a dead man who can't breathe. Whose heart is hammering in his chest. And the rapid staccato of his rib cage makes him think about rabbits. About how they would look at him with their dark, wet eyes right before he was forced to kill them in their snares. _Run rabbit. Run to the meadow._

The Darkling looks down on him, like he's a stain on the floor. Mal feels blood trickle from his nose, coating his lips, and pooling under his chin.

"You know why I'm here."

It takes every muscle, every nerve, and every drop of willpower he has to spit at the Darkling's boots. But he does.

The Darkling steps aside harmlessly, and looks to the Grisha, "Let him speak."

Air floods his lungs in gracious, clean amounts. The spots recede. He almost gags as he lies there on the ground, hunched over and cowering.

"Where-" he needs to know. He needs to know more than he needs air, "-is she."

"Predictable, at least." The Darkling says coldly, "But I've already wasted enough time on childish theatrics."

"Let. Her go-"

"As I said, tracker. She's not your concern," he nods to the Grisha, and Mal feels horrible nausea flood his stomach as he bows down. His fingers curl into a fist and if he's to die, he wants to die standing, and he _can't _because of whatever this bastard can do to his insides.

The Darkling crouches down, grabbing the hair at the back of Mal's head like he's a dog in need of disciplining. His neck snaps back, and he looks straight in to the Darkling's gaze. He stares at Mal, and he doesn't know what it is he wants to see, but something cold and angry passes over his face as he speaks into the darkness of Mal's cell.

"You are _nothing. _And she will forget you."

Mal forces his lungs to gather enough air to manage conviction, "No. She won't."

The Darkling scowls, "It was easy. To make her think you abandoned her. So very, _very _easy. And it will be just as easy to do it again."

The confusion must register on his face, because the Darkling presses on. The grip he has on Mal tightens and it betrays the anger he is trying to keep hidden underneath that stony exterior, "You're going to Tsibeya, tracker. You are going to Tsibeya and never returning."

Mal swallows. It tastes like the blood from the back of his nose. And he doesn't understand. Is this mercy? From him? And what, saints _what, _has Alina done to secure it for him?

"Whatever she promised…." He breathes, "It's not worth-"

"Your life. I agree." the Darkling releases Mal's hair, and stands. His gaze is once again cool and calculated, the clench of his jaw relaxing as he turns to the Grisha, "When you've finished, dispose of it quietly. Avoid the barracks."

The Grisha nods, and the expression makes Mal realize that he is not going to Tsibeya. His fingertips dig into the stone as he desperately tries to stand, but can't.

"Tell…Alina…"

The Darkling doesn't even slow in his step as he exits the cell. As he goes up twelve stairs, as he makes two more creak.

Mal coughs, choking, and tastes blood and bile in his throat.

"I'll be faster than a noose," the Grisha grunts, almost apologetically but not quite, and his fingers clench tighter in their fist.

Mal feels his heart twist—which should be impossible, hearts don't twist, do they?—and sees white flood his eyes. He sees Alina, rolling her eyes and calling him a moron at one of the summer festivals, her face illuminated by fire. Feels her small hand wrapped around his own in the dark. Tastes her lips against his as he finally understands what it means to find a home. Hears the old piano, as it makes harsh clinks because she never really learned to play it.

Malyen Oretsev's heart stops with the smell of grass from the meadow filling his nose instead of blood.

**ii.**

Across the camp, Alina wipes the tears from her eyes and solemnly prepares for the journey through the Fold.

It's worth it, she says to herself as she feels her heart split in half. The black _kefta, _the collar, the bargain—it's all worth it, because Mal is going to be alive.

And he's going to be on his way to Tsibeya.


	2. After the Flood

**Notes: **For harry-up-n-kiss-me on tumblr! First full paragraph (Darkling's speech) is lifted directly from _Shadow and Bone._

* * *

It was over. The Saints could forsake her, but that was all she had in response to what had just happened. For Alina, there were no exclamations, screams, or questions. No tears. Just that one, final and horrible thought: _It's over._

The Darkling turned his back on the stunned and angry expressions of the ambassadors and addressed the Grisha and soldiers on the skiff. "Tell the story of what you've seen today. Tell everyone that the days of fear and uncertainty are over. The days of endless fighting are over. Tell them that you saw a new age begin."

Alina tried to breathe as the cheers of the Second Army converged with the fading screams of the dying. Her fingers curled into a fist at either side of her, and even though she had closed her eyes some time ago, the sounds of the beating, leathery wings and hungry shrieks were so visceral that it didn't make a difference.

And she somehow already knew she'd hear the echoes of those sounds until her grave.

No longer being held up by that invisible hand, Alina's body felt boneless and heavy. She sank to her knees, taking deep breaths despite the difficulty of the action. Part of her already knew that there wasn't anything living anymore, in that dark and empty wasteland beyond the barrier of her power.

The Darkling was still speaking, and Alina caught a few words out of his diatribe. Grisha. Peace. Brotherhood. The empty statements ran around in circles, as if they could protect the people from thinking too hard about what the price for that was. Alina could still see that woman trying desperately to pick up her child before the darkness swallowed them—her hair had been blonde.

Like Mal's.

Her back slouched in her kneeled position. _Mal is in Tsibeya, _she repeated to herself once again, for it was the mantra that had taken the place of prayer in her mind. _Mal is in Tsibeya. Mal is in Tsibeya._

_Mal was in Tsibeya _and she had paid for his escape by agreeing to _this. _Shame filled her, and not for the first time, she was glad she had spared Mal from whatever the Darkling had planned. If he was willing to do this to Ravkans…

She couldn't cry.

Alina heard his footprints, but didn't look up until she felt those long, cold fingers curl under her chin. Instead she stared at the deck of the skiff. The clean, bloodless grains of wood that held it together, broken only by rusted iron nails.

The Darkling kneeled in front of her, his fingers still in place. And it was with a bitter sort of humor that Alina realized, to the onlookers, he probably looked comforting right now. She knew better. And as Alina finally tilted her head up, she saw that eternal bleakness that resided behind his eyes. The tensing of his jaw.

"Stand."

Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, "Why."

The Darkling gave a harsh exhale from his nostrils, as if the question itself was yet another offense against him, "You are part of the new Ravka, Alina. And I will not have you kneeling for its birth."

"I'm not part of any of this."

He leaned forward, his forehead touching her own, and for its appearance it was intimate. But unlike the watching ambassadors, Alina felt the bruising grip on her jaw.

The Darkling's voice was calm, unshakeable, "You will stand beside me. You will smile. If you must shed tears, it will only be because you are overcome with relief for the end of the war. Otherwise I will find your tracker, and I will give small pieces of him to the volcra until there's nothing but bone."

Alina felt her heart crawl into her throat. Her stomach rolled. _Mal is in Tsibeya._She whispered to herself. _Mal is in Tsibeya._

"_Stand, _Alina."

He put his arms around her. And the Darkling lifted her up from the deck.

Alina closed her eyes. _Mal is in Tsibeya._

She stood beside him, one of his arms wrapped around her waist. She failed to smile. When she opened her eyes, they were not brimmed with tears at all, only something dry and hollow.

The Darkling stared at her from the corner of his eyes, giving an almost imperceptible frown. She didn't care. And she didn't react when the Darkling abruptly dragged her closer to him. His movements were rehearsed, a performance for the crowd, when he brought a hand to the back of her neck—over the collar—and lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was slow. Unhurried. And the pressure of his lips against hers was uncharacteristically gentle. It was the sort of kiss she imagined Mal might give her, after the day she gave herself that scar on her palm.

And Alina had never felt more disgusted. Her fingers dug into the front of his_kefta, _in what was probably interpreted as passion, but was really a desperate move to get him away from her. The Darkling let out an irritated sigh as he withdrew.

"Your eternal gratitude needs some refining," he said darkly, though he kept a nearly pleasant smile on his lips.

The words were heavy with warning, and it made her release her hands from his clothes as if burned. Before she could reply, the Darkling inclined his head at something over her shoulder.

A heavy hand gripped onto her bicep. Alina wasn't surprised that when she craned her neck it was Ivan she saw behind her.

The Darkling's instructions were spoken in a near-silent whisper, "Take her to the front of the skiff. Don't let anyone speak to her until we've reached the shore."

Ivan nodded, and Alina opened her mouth to scream, to protest, to do_something _that made her feel outside of his influence, but the Darkling's withering look silenced her. And his next words destroyed any other outburst she might have enacted.

"If she mentions the tracker at all, or tries to escape, contact his escort to Tsibeya and have him killed en route."

Ivan bowed his head, and started to drag Alina behind him without further ceremony.

Alina's eyes widened, and she struggled to face the Darkling even though Ivan was determined to march in the opposite direction, "You said-"

The Darkling's smile faded, just for one moment, "Do not try to assign integrity now, Alina. Or should I remind you who it was that turned her back on her country at merely a word from an old woman?"

_That old woman is your mother, _Alina thought, her mind racing with poison, _And even she knew that this is wrong. _For some reason, thinking of Baghra, thinking of her voice calling her a "foolish girl" once again, made something steel and solid enter her chest. And Alina dug her heels into the ground.

"You need to keep Mal alive," Alina almost growled, and she wasn't oblivious to the couple of soldiers who were starting to look at their exchange.

The Darkling was not oblivious either, if his tightened jaw was any indicator, "You are not in a position to make demands. Neither," his lips tugged into a frown, "is your _otkazat'sya._"

Alina jutted her chin up, she straightened her posture, and she looked him dead in the eyes, "Then kill me now."

Ivan's grip on her arm went slack, and he sent her an annoyed glare, but he stayed silent by her side. Everything seemed silent in that moment as she stared down her captor.

The Darkling said nothing for several, long moments, before he crossed the distance between them and leaned down.

"I can make life very difficult for you, Alina," he whispered, eyes not breaking from hers, "I can make death seem like a mercy," his voice grew softer, "But I will not kill you."

She wasn't afraid. She had nothing to be afraid of if he wasn't going to protect Mal. Her words were equally quiet, but they were intent even if her voice was hoarse, "If Mal dies by your order, someone will. I'll make sure of it."

The Darkling's face was impassive, but she could almost sense the agitation rolling off of him in currents. He watched her expression carefully, but she was positive that whatever he was looking for—doubt? Insincerity? Bravado?—wasn't there. She wouldn't let him hold Mal's fate over her head like a sword. They had made a deal, and he would either keep his half of the bargain, or she would end hers.

He looked at her mouth, then her neck. "…Keep her from her own stupidity."

Ivan cleared his throat, "Yes, moy sovereniy."

And with that, the Darkling turned his attention away from her and Ivan, and back instead to his crowd of jubilant soldiers.

—-

Alina was pale and furiously silent as they moved across the threshold. She didn't look up from the endless expanse of darkness in front of them as Ivan carted her past the raging ambassadors, the disgusted envoy of the King, or the still cheering Grisha.

"You are walking too slow," Ivan growled down at her, his lips barely moving.

"Afraid I might rain on the parade?"

Her warden only grit his teeth, "You're an arrogant idiot for questioning his mercy."

"Good," Alina whispered, her hands balling into fists, "I'd rather be an idiot than someone cheering about Novokribir-"

"Like this is about the village."

"It's about everything, he's murdered his own people!"

Ivan's fingers curled tighter into her arm, "Be quiet, or I'll let him know we had this conversation. Do you really think he cares if a deserting soldier makes it to Tsibeya?"

Alina took a short inhale, his words sliding like a knife under her ribs.

Ivan snorted, and Alina wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but his tone seemed more subdued, "If you want your tracker to live, you'll shut up. If _you_ want to live, you'll shut up."

"He won't stop," she said hollowly, looking at the Unsea and trying to see its nonexistent horizon in the gathering dark, "It won't be enough for him. He'll make his own war."

Ivan's gaze was trained straight ahead as well, "Then let him. Maybe this time we'll be on the side that wins."

Alina closed her eyes. She thought of Keramzin. Of Ivan's brothers, father, and uncles. Of the darkness that just swallowed Novokribisk whole. Of the woman with her blonde hair. Of her son who was still too small to run.

"I think we both know that side doesn't exist."

—

The rest of the return trip to Os Alta is a silent one.


	3. Pit of Vipers

**Chapter Two: Pit of Vipers**

He gave her back her old rooms.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting. A cell, maybe. Or a cage where they could show her off. But when Ivan grabbed her arm and steered her away from the skiff, it wasn't into a torture chamber or a secret prison, but to the quarters in the Little Palace, which were still new enough to not look entirely lived in.

There were changes, of course. Anything with edges or sharp corners had been removed. All the furniture was bolted down to the floor. The windows had been discretely welded shut. She now had two guards posted outside, unsmiling and motionless.

And in her wardrobe, there was only black.

Alina's fingers trailed over the black, silk _kefta _that hung from edge to edge. Some were lined in furs, others tailored shorter on the sleeves. Some were formal; the embroidery elaborate and making intricate shapes in gold that she had only seen on gowns someone like only the Queen would wear. Others were plainer, though still black. Gold was spun into the cuffs and hems, but it didn't offset the eclipse she saw sewn into their fronts.

She snorted. At least they were past pretending she wasn't only here as an extension of his own power.

Alina was still staring at the _kefta _in a distant, numb sort of way when the door to her rooms opened. She stayed looking at the row of black clothes, waiting for her visitor to speak first.

"You look terrible," Genya observed, hands folded in the sleeves of her red _kefta _and eyes discretely trained away from the wardrobe.

She tried to smile, and failed. Her thumb moved over the stitching on the sleeve of one of her _kefta. _The gold threads shined with the angle of the lights. Alina shrugged, "…Turns out no one packed me a hairbrush."

Genya gave a low hum from the back of her throat, moving in quick, graceful steps to Alina's vanity. Her manicured fingers danced through its items, "Luckily for you, I know there's one here-"

"The silver one's gone," Alina muttered absently, letting the sleeve flutter down from her fingers.

Genya frowned, "It was in this drawer-"

The younger girl sighed, finally turning away from the _kefta _to give Genya a stare that she knew spoke volumes, "Confiscated. The handle had a sharp point."

Genya looked from Alina, back to the wardrobe, and pressed her lips into a smile that Alina was sure she mastered during her time in the Grand Palace, "The bristles were too rough on your hair anyways. Dozens of split ends."

Alina walked over to her bed, sitting on it with a graceless slump. It was exhausting, to act like this room wasn't just as restrictive as a cell. That she wasn't literally collared to a man who just destroyed an entire village only to make a point. She stared at her hands, at the creases and scar of her palms. Only a day ago, they had been emitting brilliant bursts of sunlight. Helping the Darkling ensure his warped idea of a dream. How many more villages would there need to be. How long would there be guards outside of her door.

The mattress dipped slightly as Genya sat down beside her. Alina saw her hesitate, for just a second, before she reached out and held Alina's hands in between her own. Alina stilled at the contact.

"So," Genya said with a soft, sad little sigh, "How should we do this?"

Alina frowned, "Do what?"

"From what I understand," she smiled, that same Grand Palace smile, "You won't be leaving for some time. I won't be either."

Some words felt like lead weights.

"…I know I don't deserve to be your friend," she continued, smile faltering just a little, "But I don't want…" she cleared her throat, "I don't want to-"

Alina's movement held none of Genya's hesitance as she removed her hands out from Genya's. She saw Genya's regret plainly on her face for that one, transitional second before Alina folded her fingers on top of hers.

"Genya," Alina said, as an odd sense of relief came flooding over her. Maybe it came from knowing that she wasn't alone here, even though she felt more alone than she had ever before in her entire life. Maybe it was the fact that not everything was taken from her when the collar was nested around her neck, "Please still be my friend."

Genya's eyes filled with tears, and her fingers squeezed Alina's tightly, "…you are entirely too forgiving for your own good."

Alina turned to the wardrobe, and looked at the hangers full of black _kefta. _

"Not always."

* * *

The first week passed in the same way that Alina imagined animals spent their time in the zoo. Apparently, the Darkling had decided that the best place for her during his silent revolution was kept in her rooms, out of sight and out of contact with anyone else aside from her guards. The only reprieve was the occasional visit from Genya, when they would have tea and snacks and talk about anything else besides the heavy knowledge that Alina was not going to be kept comfortably without a cost. And about anyone who wasn't Mal, though he was never far from her mind.

And at night, there were the dreams.

Alina had hoped that the dreams of the stag would stop after the events of the Fold, but they only grew more vivid. Every night she would see the white of its fur stained with blood as the Darkling drew his knife across its throat. Would see the way its nostrils flared in fear before it bowed before her. Would hear the grating, unforgettable sound of a saw cutting through the bone of its antlers.

Some nights, there would be others in the meadow. Sometimes it was Mal, his cheeks hollow with hunger and his throat covered with haggard stubble. Mal would say nothing, wouldn't come close to her. He would only stand beside the stag, and fall over its body when the stag's blood stained the snow.

Other times it would be the little boy from Novokribirsk, face down and motionless in the cool silence of the night. The back of his jacket would be torn in two places, as if something with talons had attempted to claw into the fabric.

And one night it was Baghra. Who stared at her so intensely the blacks of her eyes bled and expanded into the darkness, like toppled wells of ink.

All three of them only watched. They only waited. And every time Alina thought she heard them—the cries of the child, the admonishment of the old woman, and the desperation in Mal's voice—sunlight would fall through the cracks of her bedroom window and she would be awake again. Their presence would become a distant memory, and the only thing from the dreams that was fresh in her mind was the color of newly spilled blood on the snow.

* * *

One morning, almost two weeks since Novokribirsk, a sharp rap tore her away from her nightmares. Alina woke in a slow, groggy sort of way, rubbing a knuckle against her eyes to clear the sleep from them.

The knock sounded again, this time louder.

She inhaled, pushing back the elaborate covers from her body and walking across the floor in her bare feet and sleeping clothes. It wasn't unusual for Genya to come to her rooms early, but today seemed earlier than usual.

Alina was mid-yawn when she opened the door and saw a different red _kefta _instead.

Ivan stood with his hand poised to knock again, his jaw clenched in a way that indicated the grinding of teeth. His hair, usually combed neatly, was almost as tangled as Alina's own from sleep. His eyes moved slowly from the top of Alina's head to her bare feet, pausing only for a brief moment on the skin her nightgown exposed.

"He wants you seen," Ivan muttered, eyes snapping back to her face, "Put on a _kefta_."

"All of mine have been destroyed," Alina replied coldly, irritation filling her at the orders after two weeks of silence.

The hand that was poised to knock fell back at his side, clenched into a fist, "Don't be an idiot right now."

Alina kept her voice as level as possible, "I don't have anything to lose."

Ivan's eyes widened, and she realized that the expression on his face was shock, "What do you mean?"

She frowned in confusion. Wasn't it obvious? "The worst he can do is kill me."

As quickly as the shock registered on his face, it was gone. And Ivan snorted, "Hardly," he glared down at her, his eyes cold, "Put on a _kefta. _One of the informal ones."

"And if I don't?"

"Then the tracker pays for it," the Heartrender watched her face carefully after the statement, though Alina, again, found herself confused. Her willingness to do anything for Mal, too, should have been painfully obvious by this point.

The only answer she gave him was a slammed door on his face. But then she thought of Mal and Tsibeya and what price she paid to keep him there, and retrieved the plainest _kefta _from its hanger. As angry hands slipped silk over buttons and made a sloppy knot out of a sash, she wondered how long she would be able to stomach the masquerade of obedience, and how much he would make Mal suffer as a result.

* * *

After dressing, Ivan was rigid with obvious irritation as he led her down the halls of the Little Palace. They were suspiciously empty, with only the guards giving her a cursory glance before returning to their silent, grim posts.

"Who am I being seen by," Alina finally muttered, smacking Ivan's hand away when he tried to put her own in the crook of his arm. She wasn't going to be led around like an animal on a leash.

He glared at her for daring to hit him, and instead wrapped his fingers around her bicep, "Court." He said in the same tone someone might say "plague" or "amputation."

She tried to shrug out of his hold, but his grip remained firm, "Let go or I'll blind you."

Alina must have had enough venom in her voice to make her threat sound honest, because he begrudgingly released her arm, moving a step closer behind her to compensate.

"Why am I being seen by court? Are they nervous about having their king poisoned?"

"Shut _up. _And walk faster."

"Why."

"You'll…" he sent her a look so heavy with schadenfreude she could practically hear the vindictive smirk in his words, "Be late for brunch."

She halted in her step, "_Brunch_?"

Ivan nodded with sneer, "Brunch." He grabbed her arm again, apparently believing Alina's threat to have a fast time limit, and they turned a fast corner. It wasn't until the sun hit her eyes that Alina realized they were leaving the Little Palace and instead heading to the Grand.

She took a deep breath, enjoying the outside for the first time since her voluntary imprisonment. Her head tilted upwards, looking at the blue of the sky.

Ivan seemed to catch her unspoken desire, "Behave in front of the nobles, and you'll have more time outside."

A memory hit her then, sharp and clear: Baghra, standing knee-deep in the snow, her eyes daring Alina to ask her something. She bit her lip as, for the first time, it occurred to her that she had not seen or heard from Baghra since the night of the Winter Fete.

"I want to walk by the lake. Near the pavilion," she demanded as they approached the door.

Her babysitter looked at her with skepticism, "Why?"

Alina tried her best to sound sincere, "I…want to train."

Ivan gave another snort, "Train."

She glared at him, "Yes, _train. _With Botkin." Alina didn't dare ask to train with Baghra. Didn't want to face the secret, dread reality of the old woman's fate that she already suspected.

Ivan frowned, as if knowing she was lying but being unable to prove the deceit. Finally he sighed, "You are not to speak unless spoken to directly. You do not know why the king has fallen ill. You support the Darkling. Do you understand?"

Alina felt every inch of her scream in protest, but she swallowed her resentment. She could sit in a crowd of vultures if it meant leaving the Little Palace and having a chance to look for Baghra in her hut, "I want three hours by the lake."

"Sessions with Botkin are one."

"Mine are usually three."

"Liar. Two hours, if you behave perfectly. Which you won't."

She spat as the doors to the Grand Palace came into view, "_Fine._"

* * *

Brunch was a concept Alina knew existed, but not one that she had ever planned to experience. Ivan escorted her to an outdoor room that looked a lot like a greenhouse, though Ivan called it the orangery. Alina didn't understand, as nothing inside was the color for which it was named. Within its clear, glass walls, were several expensive-looking table sets, though only one held occupants. And Alina could have cried when she saw who she was to sit next to.

Genya was seated across from a conglomeration of noble women, all of whom were dressed in opulent furs and heavy silk despite the warmer weather. Their pinched expressions as they gazed at Genya's red _kefta _were enough to tell Alina that these were no doubt friends of the queen.

Ivan steered her towards the table, even going so far as to push her chair out for her. Alina sat almost bonelessly, staring at the too many forks and thinly sliced lymonnyk, the blini coated in fresh berries and heavy cream, the other extravagant items in the zakuski, and the plates that were full of servings that would barely fill a mouse's stomach despite the excessive amounts of food.

Genya, beside her, unfolded her napkin across her lap in a motion that also drew attention to the blue stitching on her hems, "Alina, I'm glad your morning prayers didn't keep you from attending this time."

Ivan pushed her chair in, and left to stand by the door of the orangery in steps quick enough to imply he believed nobility was an illness that could be caught in the air.

Alina looked hesitantly around the table. Four women sat across from her, as far from Genya as they could.

"Prayers," she repeated, deadpan.

Genya, however, was skilled at far more than arranging hair or removing dark circles from the eyes, "We are all concerned about the King, of course, but your dedication to his health is admirable."

"Some more concerned than others," spoke the youngest of the nobles. She had round cheeks, a string of emeralds around her neck, and the dim, straining gaze of a mole.

Genya smiled, grabbing the tea kettle and seamlessly pouring Alina a cup before serving herself. Alina imagined that was deliberate, for some reason. "No one would ever doubt your…_ardent _sorrow at the King's current state, Countess Demidova."

The Countess's lips pressed into a firm line as she somehow managed a gracious look despite the burning red of her round, round cheeks.

Alina looked at the noble woman. They were all…severe. And strained. Perfumed containers holding too much pressure, and therefore doomed to one day explode. Beside the mole woman sat a slightly older looking noble, with blonde hair piled high on her head in a style that was so bizarre and needlessly complicated that it must have been a fashion somewhere, and next to her was a woman who had a head of silver-white hair, creases lining her lips, which had been set in a deep scowl since Alina had arrived at the inappropriately titled orangery. The last woman was quiet, her face a calm mask, her gown made of furless silk, and Alina remembered all the tales she had heard of snakes, and how they looked before they released their venom.

The strangely haired woman took a delicate sip of tea, "Hopefully your predisposition of concern towards the King has not dulled your manners, Sun Summoner?"

Genya sent Alina an expectant look, and she frowned in confusion. The silence stretched on, before Alina decided she had enough of it and reached for a blini with one of the medium-sized forks-

Genya gave her a discrete headshake, and, remembering her deal with Ivan, Alina set down the cutlery with a defeated resignation. The Tailor gave her a look that could almost be sympathetic before she cleared her throat, "The rudeness is mine, I'm afraid. I handle introductions for the Sun Summoner," she took a knife and a fork and began to gingerly cut the blini on her plate in half, "This is Alina Starkov, Sun Summoner as I'm sure you are all aware. Alina, these are ladies of the Queen's court. Countess Katerina Demidova," the mole woman's jaw clenched, just a little, "Countess Zinaida Dushkova," and the blonde woman's upper lip pulled.

"D_a_shkova," she corrected.

Genya inclined her head, "Apologies, I have always heard it pronounced in the former way at court," the blonde woman went flush with…something. Alina didn't understand why a wrong name was such an indignity, "Duchess Polina Kirsanova, and…" Genya frowned.

"Countess Kitaar," the calm woman said, with none of the perceived indignity of Dushkova.

Genya's frown eased, but was not entirely removed from her face, "Countess Kitaar. I don't believe we've met."

"Probable. I've been with my family in the Shu regions," Countess Kitaar replied politely, turning her attention back to the small square of lymonnyk on her plate.

Genya slid half of her blini onto Alina's plate, "They have all been very excited to meet you. Especially with your…religious obligations taking up most of your time since your return from the Unsea."

Alina stopped her snort by shoving a bite of strawberry-covered blini into her mouth.

Duchess Kirsanova, the old woman, gave a bark of laughter, and Alina watched as she retrieved a silver flask from her sash, pouring its clear contents unabashedly into her tea, "I was more concerned with the monarchy being disposed, myself."

Everything at brunch became very, very still.

Genya's fingers tightened on her tea cup, "The Apparat is the appointed leader as the King recovers."

Kirsanova rose two steel-colored brows as she took a lengthy swig of her…brunch tea, "We have a prince, if I'm not mistaken."

"_Two,_" the mole woman said, with another flush on her cheeks, and Alina would not be surprised if she was as ardent over the second prince as she was for the King.

"Prince Vasily has decided to focus on the duty a son has to his mother for the time being, and is attending to the Queen in her distress," Genya said in a polished tone, an answer given many times, "While I am not one to impose my opinion on the state of affairs to members of the royal family, you are welcome to inform him of his responsibilities, Kirsanova."

Alina stilled halfway through another bite of the thin pancake. She wasn't fluent in the language of court, but even she knew the dismissal of the Duchess's title in her address was a deliberate slight.

Not that Kirsanova appeared to care in the slightest, as she poured more vodka into her tea, "A new jacket is not a new suit of armor."

Genya gave a smile that was too much like a shark's, "I have plenty of armor at my disposal," she cleared her throat once more, "Now, shall we move on to less tedious topics?"

Small conversation continued, as did Kirsanova's drinking, until the general morale of those seated improved. Through the course of the meal, Alina did her best to avoid joining any discussion, instead settling for shoving mouthful after mouthful of blini in lieu of speaking. Politics, and the civility of Court, were too dangerous of games for her to attempt to play. And Ivan's promise burned in the back of her mind, the almost desperate need to see Baghra again overtaking any other thought she might have.

Because Baghra was the only person besides the Darkling who might know how to remove her collar.

Alina chewed thoughtfully on another piece of pancake, and her eyes rested on the calm woman for a reason she couldn't explain. Kitaar gave no indication that Alina's attention was focused on her, instead she only watched her tea as the conversation unfolded around her.

An hour passed of dull, simple conversation before the one with ridiculous hair broke the calm.

"You're a lot plainer than I anticipated," she said, that upturned nose in full prominence. It took Alina a few moments to realize the comment was directed at her.

The comment left her mouth before she could stop it, "I didn't have time to tier my hair before my babysitter dragged me here."

She felt Ivan's and Genya's stares train on the back of her head, no doubt in warning.

Dush or Dashkova scowled, but hesitated, as if she wasn't sure if that was meant to be a compliment before she pressed on, "You _do _realize that your position in the Second Army is unprecedented, do you not-?"

Genya's softest tone cut through the question, and Alina's eyebrows furrowed as she spoke, "If I heard correctly, you have a training session today, don't you Alina?"

Alina looked at Genya in confusion. She did, or at least, she assumed she did. But Genya had to have sharp ears to overhear her conversation with Ivan. She turned back to the blonde, silly woman, "…I'm aware that I'm the only Sun Summoner."

Dushkova scoffed, "Not _that. _How you're the Darkling's-"

The blonde woman fell silent just as Ivan's hand came to rest on Alina's shoulder.

"Time to go, moya sovereniy."

Alina jerked at the title, head turning to meet Ivan's gaze. The Heartrender's expression gave nothing away, but Alina felt Kitaar's even, assessing stare now trained on the both of them.

"…okay," she said, not liking how he appeared just as soon as the women were starting to discuss the Darkling, and her role to him, but also not in a hurry to spend another second in this pit of vipers masquerading as a pretentious meal. Alina stood, sending a side glance to Genya before she left without another word. She had no desire to pretend this meal was anything other than an obligation.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the question came.

"What were they talking about."

Ivan said nothing, only kept walking with a hand around her bicep, yet again. She was beginning to wonder if he thought she was incapable of supporting her own weight.

"You've never called me sovereniy."

His jaw clenched and he came to an abrupt halt, "Do you want your lesson with Botkin, or not?"

She did. More than anything. But something about the woman's sneer stuck out in her mind. It wasn't unlike the ones she'd receive from Mal's various girlfriends. "Do you want me to go to _brunch _when everyone knows something I don't?"

Ivan glared at her, as if trying to physically remove the validity of the question with the expression.

"Tell me or I'll ask Kirsanova next time," Alina threatened.

He finally snorted, "You know, your resistance to the obvious is remarkable. They'll have to give your brain to the _Corporalki _healers to study when you die."

Alina frowned, "What obvious?"

Ivan's next words were mocking, "Did you think the Darkling kissed you in front of the envoys and Second Army because he was caught up in the moment?"

Her stomach plummeted. "He was…" But no clear explanation came.

He snorted, and started dragging her along again, "He was making a statement."

Alina took a deep breath, and asked the question she didn't want to ask as she moved her legs to match with his, "…what kind of statement."

Ivan rolled his eyes, looking straight ahead, and therefore oblivious to the way his next words made Alina pale:

"It means everyone believes you're his consort."


End file.
